#endsonnets

Reflecting back to me in your grey eyes,

Two eyes, more grey than those you are reflecting.

I am deconstructed. It’s no surprise

To see myself captured in you, infecting

your irises. Is vision the disease?

All black and blue and brown, we’re bruising hue,

All back and forth, it seems we never cease

Becoming blue again, becoming you

and drowning me, a beautiful sub clause

in your chartered waters. And then you blink,

the aperture acquits a tender pause,

relief enough to, in discov’ry, think:

My dear, keep both eyes closed - you love best blind.

Remind me: was it years ago that we

bound up my fingers behind me with cords

so we couldn't count up the misery,

or did misery came along afterwards?

As I add all tomorrows you become

An impressionistic love on the wall.

Each blot is a reason, and I succumb

to pleasantry for fear of finding all

the flaws. Far greater is your beauty when

eyes and ears and fingers are elided

from my calculations and only then,

naive, is your victory conceded.

A thousand names have I, but sycophant